


Clockwork Swallow

by Ragingstillness



Series: Clockwork Swallow [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Criminal AU, F/M, Follows show canon with a twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2018-11-04 14:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10992993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragingstillness/pseuds/Ragingstillness
Summary: Jack Robinson is on the edge of conquering Melbourne's streets for himself when a ghost from the past is suddenly revived and threatens his efforts.





	1. More Devils Than Vast Hell Can Hold

 

    “GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!!!” 

    Jack’s voice roared through the warehouse, echoing off sad, brown wooden containers, rotten rafters, and, hopefully, the bodies of their enemies. His second in command tipped him his hat before vaulting over the catwalk rail and tumbling down piles of cargo, hitting the ground at a run. Jack himself bunched his knees and leapt, grasping an overhead rafter and pulling himself into the jungle of shadows and splinters. Raising a hand to his lips, he felt half of his mouth pull up. There was nothing for it. After the week he’d had, those poor bastards were getting it. 

    Jack’s bones complained with every hop he made at twenty meters up but he paid them no mind. It had been too long since he was on a raid with the men. He really needed to get out more, marital drama or not. 

    This unfortunate train of thought led back to what he’d desperately been trying to forget. The look on Rosie’s, the Brown Rose, as she was better known, face as she slammed the door for the final time, his keys rocketing from her hand to slit open his face before burying themselves in the wall. The week old cut on his cheek ached with the thought. 

    Jack ignored it and moved forward again, bare centimeters of his loafers finding purchase on timbers that looked ready to collapse. He could see flashes of movement beneath him, his men, already left behind, and those of the targets, racing away from the yells and racket. They were headed for a set of large double doors at the end of the warehouse. Jack knew it was the only exit. He’d been planning this attack for weeks. 

    Most of the other gang leaders had laughed at such meticulous attention to detail. Jack had laughed too, then grabbed the neck of his beer bottle to smash it against the bar, still smiling. Suddenly what kept his men alive was less funny. 

    With one final, much too painful swing, Jack was on the other side of the building, clattering over the adjoining catwalk. A simple hop got him over the railing and at the top of the ladder. He glanced down. Several running bodies approached. Too fast, they were going too fast. He cursed getting older, his damn luck, and Rosie, for the hell of it. Then his hands dove to his pockets, switching his workman’s gloves for higher quality leather. He loosely grasped the edges of the ladder, then let go with his feet. It was a close call to not break his fingers against the rungs but sure enough Jack’s loafers made dusty contact with the straw covered floor, right in front of the running men. 

    His gun was in his hand before they could blink. One idiot went for his own weapon but a silenced shot ripped through the edge of his pants before his hand could enter his pocket. Jack whistled at his second in command and put his own weapon up as the repeated clicking of safeties signified the arrival of his men. 

    “Well gentlemen, why brings you out so late?” 

    The targets sputtered, one man eventually stepping forward. He squared his shoulders, still several centimeters shorter than Jack. 

    “What do you think you’re doing, Quince? This is neutral wharfie territory. You and your Mechanicals can back off or face the consequences.” 

    Jack exchanged a wry smile with his men. His gun clanked from its position on his shoulder back into his hands. He wasn’t smiling anymore. This had to be a show of absolute power, or this evening would end with a lot more red on these hay strewn floors than he’d hoped. 

    “Not anymore it isn’t. I’m claiming it for the Mechanicals as reparations.” 

    “On what grounds!?” 

    Jack’s eyes narrowed. Moron and a poor liar. 

    “Don’t think I didn’t notice your thugs stirring up trouble in one of my bars last weekend.” 

    “Don’t know a thing about any trouble.” 

    Jack’s finger caressed the trigger. He leveled the barrel at the man’s head. 

    “Thought you’d have a little fun didn’t you? Come in for a couple of strong drinks, affect much more drunkenness than was realistic, give my waitresses a damn fright.” 

    He stepped closer. 

    “I. Am. Peter. Quince! You don’t pull a fast one on the Mechanicals.” 

    His men grumbled in affronted agreement. The enemy leader’s eyes locked onto the fury in Jack’s and he wilted. He was right to. Jack kept his control on a razor edge and his boundaries enforced in all but stone. These men had broken all sorts of unspoken codes, the least of which was hurting innocents unaffiliated with the operation. On a normal day Jack would have drawn the confrontation out but this day being as it was had driven him up the wall once too often. 

    His arm lowered in a flash and he pinged a shot off the floor at the leader’s feet. 

    “ _You_ back off. This area, from that little bar where they do horse betting all the way to the Grand hotel, is ours. And you’re trespassing.” 

    The other man bristled, not wanting to be humiliated in front of his men. But a gun that close to his head can pull humility out of any man. He waved what he hoped was a dismissive hand at Jack. One last attempt to stay on top of the situation. Jack barely kept from shooting. 

    “Alright Quince. It’s yours. But don’t think I don’t know about your plan to take over this city. It isn’t happening, not while we’re still out from under your thumb. That goes for the other gangs too.” 

   One of Jack’s men responded for him. 

    “It’s happened before.” 

    It probably wasn’t the best choice of analogy. As if on cue, every man present squinted at the warehouse walls and piled up boxes. There it was, the simple silhouette of a bird, black in color, with a flat head and long, sharp beak, plastered around the warehouse. They hadn’t noticed it when they came in, so used to seeing the image covering most of the city, and trying to live their lives suppressing the involuntary shiver. 

    The other leader turned on a heel, suppressing the shiver in the face of the painted image, and laughing weakly at Jack. 

    “You’re many things Quince, but you’re no Kingfisher.” 

    As if the fateful word were magic, the men took off running, vanishing into the night mist. 

    Jack ran a hand through his hair. How long was that shadow going to haunt the city? The Kingfishers hadn’t ruled its streets in almost half a century; at this point the younger gang members saw it as an urban myth. Jack kept an eye on rumors of it, every intelligent leader did, but the last he’d heard, the previous Kingfisher, some man whose name started with an H, had left for London and never came back. And nobody knew what had happened since, if the man was dead, had a successor, or was even interested in broken down, crime-ridden Melbourne anymore. In Jack’s personal opinion, that presence had gone and wasn’t coming back anytime soon. As far as he was concerned that left the city his for the taking. 


	2. Reason And Love Keep Little Company Together Nowadays

    Most men in Jack’s position wanted Melbourne for the power, the advancement and riches. But Jack wanted it for the exact opposite reason. He loved order, and creating order out of chaos. If he was in control, he could keep order; put the richer citizens in proper fear of a well trained crime empire. Potentially sociopathic, maybe. His only option at the moment, definitely. 

    And, if Jack was perfectly honest with himself, he was bored to death. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t busy. He had the men’s needs to attend to, as well as training new recruits and cracking the whip over those who thought joining the Mechanicals meant a completely lawless life. They were criminals, not savages. Thieves, thugs, cheapskates, gamblers, assholes, but never rapists or kidnappers. 

    Jack ran a tight ship, that seemed to be adding galleys and decks by the day. The men Jack had attacked had been sorely incorrect in their assessment of Melbourne’s criminal underworld. The vast majority were either indebted to Jack or allied to him and his ideology. 

    He tended to take a blunt approach, but he was still subtler than, say, the police. He had to be. And that subtlety leant him a comfortable reputation, one that allowed him to expand different parts of his life. Such as wooing the Brown Rose, infamous jewel thief and daughter of a renowned master in the craft. 

    Jack growled deep in his throat. Even that wasn’t a concern anymore. Sixteen years of happy…ish…marriage and she threw it all away when he refused to attempt a citywide take over. 

   Rosie had raged for days, somehow throwing his accomplishments and his influence at him in ways that felt like condemnations. The final straw had been when she noted that his precision was so focused on his men that it was utterly ridiculous he hadn’t tried to do anything else with his life. 

    “Be a crooked lawyer, a conman, a damn police officer if you want! You’re so much more than just a petty thug!” 

    Then she snapped her mouth closed. Jack’s eyes had gone black. 

    “Don’t. You. Ever. Compare me to those thrice damned coppers again! I will never sink that low!” 

    Rosie wasn’t cowed and had instead sulked. 

    “No need to make such a fuss, Jackie. It was just an example.” 

    Blood roared in Jack's ears. Without thinking, he flung his arm towards the door, cracking his elbow violently in the process. 

    “Get. Out.” 

    Rosie’s eyes widened. 

    “Get out of my house!” 

    Her eyes narrowed and Jack realized his mistake. He sunk into a chair. 

    “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.” 

    Rosie snorted. She leaned a hip against the kitchen table.

    “I’m just saying Jackie, it was a long time ago. Man up. I didn’t marry a coward.” 

    Vicious shouts echoed in Jack’s memory. Coward. _Coward_. **Coward**. 

    His blood froze. He stood, snapping his hands over his lapels. 

    “You didn’t. You married a sensible man.” 

    Rosie laughed, coldly. 

    “Sensible my ass. Face it Jackie, you’re just scared to make something of yourself. And I’m not going to sit around and watch you waste everything I’ve worked for!” 

    Too much. He wasn’t going to stand for it anymore, not when she’d already broken his trust. He’d thought better of her honestly. 

    Jack took a deep breath. He smiled with just the corners of his mouth. 

    “Get out. Of my house.” 

    And she’d gone, but not before throwing the keys at him. Jack wasn’t looking forward to the wrath of her father, but there was little to be done about it. Rosie had crossed a line. She’d dared to bring up the one part of his past he wanted most to forget. She knew full well that he still woke up most nights with the smell of life blood and bile in his nostrils, the echo of jackboots on bone echoing in his ears. 

    He would forgive her for everything, everything but that.

    Jack stalked out the warehouse, his men trailing behind. It would do no good to think of Rosie. Nothing remained of their happy times in his mind, just the pain she’d caused him. 

    Maybe he’d forget with time but he of all people knew the stages of reconciliation and this was not anywhere near closure.

    So he moved forward; the seizure of territory, the meticulous planning to a manic degree. Finally he was doing what Rosie had always wanted, but she wasn’t there to see it and he wanted it less with every chunk of the city he took. The only consolation was that hope of order he’d transplanted into his motivations. 

    By the time Jack pulled out of his thoughts the boys were back at their main bar, clapping shoulders and shouting greetings to waitresses, wives, lovers, friends. Jack gave them all a nod, heading for a seat at the end of the bar close to an exit door. 

    His usual was slid before him and he nodded gratefully at the woman who had mixed it. He took it all in one straight shot, not even wincing. The chatter fell silent. 

    Jack turned to the rest of the bar. 

    “Congratulations. The waterfront, from the Pig Snout Bar to the Grand Hotel, now belongs to the Mechanicals.” 

    A raucous cheer arose. Men pounded tumblers on wooden tables that creaked and groaned. One of the burly ones near the back raised his. 

    “To Peter Quince, our fearless leader!” 

    The men roared. 

    “To Peter!” 

    Jack felt half of his mouth curl up again. A wave of wonder swept across the men’s faces. It was always a treat to see the boss smile, as he did it so rarely these days. 

    The night passed as it generally did. Jack went to bed alone and for the next two months or so the routine repeated until all but the smallest corner of Melbourne, marked by City South Police Station and a particularly rich neighborhood, belonged to the Mechanicals. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of filler, this chapter. It will pick up soon, I promise. Just a little background on who Rosie is in this story and Jack’s motivations. Thanks to some help from my fabulous cousin, love you bae, I have come up with a way to incorporate the entire main cast and a couple of my favorite side characters. Yay for that. I wanted to publish this chapter sooner than I planned because the comments and kudos you guys left were just too amazing and I thought you deserved a little reward. Thank you again for all your kind and welcoming words. 
> 
> Good lord I'm really insecure with the interaction with Rosie and the characterization there let me know. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ragingstillness


	3. Shadows Have Offended

    The end of the second month of relative quiet found Jack asleep at his desk, maps and statements from leaders who had pledged themselves to him being slowly crushed under his folded arms. His second in command had found him thus that morning and even though it was quickly becoming noontime, he had given strict orders to the men not to wake the boss. 

    Jack had trained them to be observant and they had collectively _observed_ that the boss was getting little to no sleep and had been since the Brown Rose left. No one dreamed of disobeying the order. 

    A commander of Jack’s, Robin, was left guarding the main bar and by extension Jack’s office. He was awfully fond of Jack, and, being a significant amount older than the boss, saw him as a younger brother figure, or perhaps even a son. Naturally he was very dedicated to the task of keeping Jack asleep, so when the dirty young man sprinted down the street towards the bar, hooting and hollering for the Mechanicals, Robin was understandably furious. 

    He grasped the youth by an arm and dragged him into an alley. 

    “What the hell do you think you’re doing son? Making such a racket?” 

    The boy panted, hands on his knees. It took him quite a while to catch his breath but once he did the words tumbled out like eager kelpie puppies. 

    “Snug sent me, from the docks. He’s got big news. The boss needs to hear about it now!” 

    The boss also needs to hear about Snug inviting young men barely old enough to shave into their group but that was neither here nor there. 

    “The boss is busy son. I can take a message.” 

    “That won’t be necessary.” 

    Robin cursed himself and straightened, turning to face Jack. To his credit, the boss had gotten ready quite fast, the only sign of his previous state a red line from the spine of a book, parallel to the scar the Brown Rose gave him. 

    The boy straightened up immediately and snapped into a salute. Jack rolled his eyes. 

    “At ease soldier, the war is over. What do you have for me?” 

    The boy’s face blanched and he glanced throughout the alley before leaning towards Jack, who had to stoop quite a bit to get his ear near the boy’s mouth. 

    “Snug says, and he’s very unsure of this, just heard it in passing really-” 

    “Out with it. If it comes from Snug, it’s trustworthy.” 

    The boy took a deep breath. 

    “The Kingfisher is back.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt a little bad about how short the last chapter was and how slow so here is an extra treat, also short, but at least getting the plot running. Please let me know how I’m doing.


	4. Fan The Moonbeams From His Sleeping Eyes

    Jack froze. An irrational desire to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction sprang up in his bones. He ignored it, but only barely. 

    “ _The_ Kingfisher. Snug says the leader of the world’s most infamous crime syndicate, is here?” 

    “Yes sir, and he’s not alone. He’s brought men. Most everyone’s saying he’ll want the town back.”

    Jack cussed violently. The boy jumped back a step. 

    It couldn’t be true! But if it was, then Jack was dead meat. The Kingfishers stuck to a code of honor much like his own but they were big time crooks. Smugglers of fineries and weaponry, pirates, information brokers, and high class robbers who did job the likes of which the Brown Rose had only dreamed of. The Kingfishers were ruthless, cunning, and whatever they wanted, they got. 

    Jack got an ironic sense of satisfaction from knowing the police would likely be panicking even more than he was. 

    But Jack had made taking the city so easy for the Kingfishers. The small section the Mechanicals didn’t own would be overrun in hours at most, and then all the invaders had to do was threaten Jack himself enough to steal his position. One small takeover, one big one, and only a handful of targets. 

    Jack turned to Robin. 

    “Bring a car around, I’m going to speak with Snug myself. Oh, and tell Elaine to get the boy an apple for his trouble. He made it here in record time.” 

    Within minutes Jack was sitting on one of the shipping containers in the very same warehouse he’d taken two months before. In front of him was a conniving, slippery looking man who Jack had named Snug, when the gang had found the homeless teen on the streets years before. Snug was sly to a nauseating degree but he was always honest with Jack. 

    “Is it true?” Jack demanded. 

    Snug took a swig from his hip-flask. 

    “I’m afraid so, Peter. The Kingfisher is back. The code went out just days ago.” 

    That was interesting. The Kingfishers command structure had always been a bit of a wonder to Jack, organized into an almost perfect web of different classes. The Kingfisher themselves always took out an ad in a high class newspaper, written in code, when a new Kingfisher was, well, crowned. The newspaper then ended up in the hands of high class members of the syndicate, who employed a completely different code to pass the information to their middle class members, who passed it to their low class members and so on and so forth. By the end of a short while the entire syndicate would know there was a new leader and the higher ranking members, who were scattered throughout classes, would know where that leader was headed. 

    Snug summarized the message. 

    “New leader. Coming to Melbourne. Goodness knows why.” 

    Jack snorted. 

    “I’d say that’s pretty obvious. Your runner said he brought men along with him. Clearly he’s come to take the city back. Snug, I don’t know what I’ll do when that man comes knocking at my door.” 

    “Woah, slow down. You’ve got something wrong here.” 

    Jack frowned. 

    “I only know what your boy told me.” 

    Snug scrubbed his face with his hand. 

    “Poor kid must have been a bit off his rocker with fear.” 

    Jack leaned his elbows on his knees. Snug sighed.

    “The new Kingfisher’s a woman.” 

    That was a shock. The Kingfishers had always been known for being unorthodox, recruiting both sexes to great effect, but Jack had never imagined they’d choose a woman to lead their organization. 

    After seeing what the Brown Rose had done even before she met him, Jack had little doubt this woman would be capable but it was still sure to send shockwaves through the underground. 

    “A woman?” 

    “Yes, apparently she’s the daughter of the previous Kingfisher. As for bringing men, who knows for sure? Sources say she’s Antipodean herself. Maybe they’re just along for the company.” 

    “The company? I didn’t picture the Kingfisher syndicate as a group of friends.” 

    Snug looked vaguely uncomfortable. 

    “What is it Snug?” 

    The man shifted in his chair. 

    “Now Peter, you know I never like to speak ill of any sheila, my mother raised me better than that…” 

    “But?” 

    “But she’s, well, I’ve heard she’s a bit of a toff.” 

    “A toff?” 

    Maybe Jack could relax a little more. Money meant power but still, if the new Kingfisher was an untested syndicate leader’s darling, who’d spent most of her life in the lap of luxury, he’d have at least a little bit of time to fortify his defenses while her inexperience tripped her up. It would also make sense of why she was in Melbourne. A young, untested Kingfisher, choosing to flex her new status first in the place she was most familiar. 

    Jack stood from the table, mind made up. For the first time since he’d broken up with the Brown Rose, his actions felt self motivated. Maybe this was exactly what he’d needed, said his traitorous mind. 

    “We’ll carry on as usual. It may risky to let the ball rest in her court, but her inexperience could work in our favor.” 

    Snug looked unconvinced. 

    Jack’s gaze hardened and he swept out of the room. 

    “Make no mistake, this city is mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the gauntlet has been thrown. Metaphorically. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ragingstillness.


	5. Take Pains. Be Perfect.

    For several days after the News with a capital N, it was business as usual. The Kingfisher’s return understandably rattled the police, and they’d been fluttering around any crimes with the nerves of easily frightened birds. Jack found it intensely amusing. 

    He had his own worries, though he kept them closer to his chest. Snug sent his feelers out but had come back with no information. The Kingfishers were being unusually protective of their new leader. 

    There was nothing for it. Jack relegated the ever present fear over the Kingfishers to a corner of his brain and returned to his usual exploits. He’d halted their seizure of the city indefinitely, afraid to poke the hornet’s nest, more inclined to shore up his defenses, and after that, the previously pleasant task of choosing a new victim for his thieves. 

    Several high ranking nobles had wandered into the city recently, assured, quite falsely Jack might add, by the local police that the city was safe. Houses in the forbidden zone were off limits but a couple less dangerous targets had shown up. The most appealing of all was in between those two, not in the forbidden zone strictly but nearish to the police station. 

    Jack felt the stress of the past days catch up to him and develop into an impulse he barely recognized. He hadn’t felt it since his own days as a urchin, this desire. The want to steal, to feel the thrill of the case, the triumph of success, more uplifting than the news of a new birth or a lover’s smile. 

    He was loath to let the appealing target sit, but then again it was in a decent amount of danger. He’d send his men to the other targets, sure, and they’d surely bring in a haul, but that house would sit, full of untold riches. 

    Jack blamed the adventure books he’d pilfered as a child. The decision was made. He’d take the special house himself. 

    Jack stood, laying the newspaper society page on his desk, open to an article on the purchase of a particularly extravagant manor: the Wardlow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve just discovered a glitch that made the updates to this chapter not appear. Hopefully with this chapter all will be fixed.


	6. Ill Met By Moonlight, Proud Titania

     By the time Jack had readied his keen eye to search the target for openings, he found quite a few. The staff were small, and often out. Judging by the light patterns, the mistress of the house, for the paper had proclaimed the sale to an unknown woman, resided in a bedroom on the second floor. 

     Her window was left open in the heat of late November and even the gate wasn’t higher than could be vaulted. If it hadn’t been for its location, Jack would have sent one of his greener men to take the house. As it was, he barely anticipated trouble. 

     He planned his entrance for the night of the seventh. There was a great to-do on the other side of town that night, which any society woman in her right mind would attend. Jack would slip into the bedroom, grab whatever was there, and be out before anyone was the wiser. The operation had the added tip of flustering police with an invasion in their own backyard. And Jack would take his victories when he could get them. 

    The night fell just as the others had, since antiquity, and Jack saw himself padding around the outer fence in a dark suit and pants. Gloves secured, the street empty, and street lights strategically out, Jack took a running start then vaulted the side fence. He landed in a patch of grass, the smooth, misshapen bottoms of his shoes concealing any viable print. 

    From there he advanced towards the house, keeping in the shadows, until he was under some piping. It withstood a good tug and held Jack’s weight easily. He used it and several ornamental red pillars to scale the outer wall. 

    Jack fell into the room with a perfect tuck. His eyes swept the room. No one, as expected. Now to search the drawers. Jack was just pulling his gloves tighter when from out of nowhere came a violent kick to his side with the force of a motorcar behind it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I'll admit it, I'm messing with you now. I know full well how short this chapter is but I couldn't resist the cliffhanger. Don't worry, the next one is huge, for this story at least, about 1,000 words.


	7. Though She Be But Little, She Is Fierce

    Jack fell backward against the dresser as his attacker laid into him, striking for his vulnerable spots with vicious precision. He did his best to grapple with his opponent, panic rising with each powerful blow they landed.

    How could this have happened? There had been no sound, not even a creak, from inside the room. It was completely empty!

    His attacker clearly disagreed. Jack’s arms rose to block his face, and his attacker grabbed his shoulders, spinning him and flinging his body onto the large bed. Moonlight blinded him, and in a flash, his opponent was straddling his hips, a stiletto knife held in one hand.

    “Ha,” they breathed. Jack reached forward but the blade made contact with his throat, the attacker having moved to lean over him. Jack’s heart stopped.

    At this new angle, moonlight shone fully into the room, casting the shadows of him and his mysterious assailant against the far wall, in what looked like an intimate embrace. His first thought was, stupidly, _Jesus Christ, she’s got to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen_.

    Jack’s brain wrestled with his instincts, cataloging everything he saw. She had a slender but moderately built frame and was six or so centimeters shorter than him. Her body was shaped in seamless curves, made up of pale skin that looked as soft as newly fallen snow. The addition of a black bob that perfectly accentuated her high cheekbones and pale pink lips, was enough to render Jack completely overwhelmed.

    She smelled amazing, looked like a dream…and she was wearing nothing but a short slip that would have touched the middle of her thighs had it not rucked up when she climbed on top of him. Of all the creative tortures possible.

    His second, more prudent, thought was, _I think I’m going to die_. For all the beauty of his attacker, and it was considerable, there was ice in her eyes, and the slender hand holding the knife clearly knew how to use it. Jack tried not to swallow.

    “Hello,” he risked. For a moment, the edge of the woman’s mouth curled up.

    Then it was back down and the blade pressed harder against his throat. He felt a small trickle of blood run down to his collarbones.

    “Who are you?” She hissed.

    Jack didn’t know what possessed him. Maybe it was the knife, maybe it was a morbid plea from his tired soul, or maybe he was just crazy, but nevertheless, he responded with a simple, “Jack.”

    “Last name?”

    Why not? “Robinson.”

    “Thief.”

    There really wasn’t any way to deny it. “Guilty as charged. Or so I will be.”

    “Ha,” she huffed. “You’ll be lucky if that’s all I let you off with.” She drew the knife back ever so slightly. “Which gang are you from?”

    Jack pursed his lips, unwilling to sell out his men. The woman’s free arm shot out, pulling down the collar of his suit, baring the single line of dark words that peeked over his collarbone. They were a souvenir from the idealistic times that had also produced Jack’s gang name and his preferred alias. The tattoo read: “Never did run smooth.”

    The knife drew completely away from his neck, disappearing from the woman’s hand. Jack sat up cautiously, then was ashamed to say he startled horribly when she held out her hand, presumably to shake. The situation had moved from merely dangerous to dangerously absurd. Shaken beyond anything else, Jack took her hand and shook once.

    She smiled, a reasonable mix of genuine and fake. That was better than most crooks he’d encountered. “You’re Peter Quince.” Jack nodded. She removed her hand from his and folded it demurely in her lap. “Wonderful to make your acquaintance. Phryne Fisher.”

    Blood began to pound in Jack’s ears. He had to run, he had to go, warn his men, get the hell out of Melbourne, nay, Australia. He was going to die. His men were going to die. And Brown Rose would probably die too, just for associating with the man who dared rob the house of the Kingfisher.

    The color had drained from his face, but to his credit, his jaw was still set, and aside from blanching he had not made a move since her proclamation.

    “Kingfisher,” was all he managed to say. The Kingfisher nodded, the ends of her short black hair bobbing against the apples of her cheeks.

    “The last name is a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?” She looked to him.

    She couldn’t really be expecting an answer? He’d tried to rob her house! She was the leader of an international crime syndicate! Jack would be amazed to get out in irons rather than missing the majority of his throat.

    The Kingfisher took his silence as a yes and sighed, turning her back to him in the most blatant display of absolute power he’d ever seen. She was confident, dangerously so, but his initial assessment of her as inexperienced? Completely off the mark. There was no way someone with that much venom in their veins hadn’t committed several heinous crimes.

    She was even more beautiful when observed without the threat of an immediate death. Her manicured hands flitted constantly, giving the simplest of gestures a deep weight. Her small toes were manicured as well, in a deep red that matched an open tube of lipstick he saw on her nightstand. It physically pained him to imagine how bright her lips must be when all done up.

    Glancing sidelong at her legs, in what was obviously a professional assessment of a threat, the force behind the kick made sense. She was, as he’d noticed before, fashionably thin, but there wasn’t an inch of that considerable length wasted. Corded muscle defined every bare inch of skin. Her arms were equally toned and he assumed the rest of her body under that tiny slip was probably the same.

    The image almost sent him reeling. Good god, this woman was dangerous to both his sanity and his safety. He shouldn’t be lusting after his future murderer, what in the world was happening? He ripped his eyes away and up, to a thoroughly amused expression.

    “Like what you see?”

    He swallowed hard. “Nothing of the sort. I’ll admit to a bit of bruised pride as a result of my quick surrender.”

    It was much more poetic than he usually allowed himself, but something told him the Kingfisher would appreciate it. And she did, laughing softly. For a moment Jack forgot he was nothing but a lowly thief and gang leader.

    She couldn’t be real. He had hit his head coming in, clearly violently, and was in the throes of a pleasurable hallucination. But the logic in his brain didn’t extend to his mouth, as what came out next made him want to hit himself.

    “ _Phryne_ Fisher, you said? No relation to the notorious Greek prostitute?”

    She gazed at him with something like pleased hunger in her eyes. They were so, _so_ blue, _save him_. “Something like that. My father was drunk when he registered my birth certificate so who knows.”

    The previous Kingfisher drunk. It was hard to picture. But no harder than sitting on the bed of the current one, feeling both gobsmacked and faintly aroused.

    The woman in question spun around, pulling her legs around to sit facing him, still looking frustratingly comfortable in this odd situation. Jack’s brain began to work again. Not frustratingly comfortable, suspiciously comfortable.

    A glint of moonlight drew Jack’s eyes to the tiny peach earrings that glittered in her ears. And like that the game was up. No sensible woman went to bed in earrings.

    “Who’s your man?”

    She set a hand on her chest. “How rude, I am perfectly capable of handling myself without a husband.” Informative, but not what he was looking for.

    “Who is your man?”

    The Kingfisher huffed. “Fine, you win.” Did he really? “I do have people in your organization but you’re not getting their names.”

    “Why not?” Jack scoffed at himself for the question. What did he have to make her tell him? His roughish charm?

    The Kingfisher drew herself up in a mockery of nobility. “Well, you are a notorious gang leader. I can’t imagine what horrors you’d inflict on traitors.”

    Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re one to talk, Kingfisher.”

    “Oh, Phryne, please.”

    “As you wish, Miss Fisher.”

    The Kingfisher scowled. “We ought to at least be on the same page, Jack.” He tried desperately to ignore the goosebumps that crept over him as she snapped the end of his name. “After all, we are going to be business partners.”

    Jack frowned. “And what business are we in?”

    The Kingfisher folded her hands in her lap. “I only know you by reputation, _Mr. Quince_ , but it seems the most beneficial relationship we could have is one of harmony. Mutual leadership of Melbourne, that’s what I’m offering you.” At least she was blunt. Jack disliked people who beat around the bush.

    The Kingfisher held out a hand. Jack hesitated. In his position, her offer should have been attractive in the extreme. He and his men would live, as long as she stood by her word, and his goal to take the city would be complete. Yet the self-assured expectation in her eyes irked him somehow, so he made the one decision he’d come to both regret and treasure more than any other in his life.

    “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, Miss Fisher.” He squared his shoulders, bracing for death. At least he’d go out with a bang. “Melbourne is mine, and thus it shall remain.”

    The Kingfisher hummed and withdrew her hand. “I can’t promise the safety of your men or you if you’re not on my side.”

    “I understand.”

    The Kingfisher spun back around and when she was facing him again each of her hands cradled full wineglasses. She offered him one. “May the best man, or woman, win.” Jack stared. The Kingfisher reached forward anyway and clinked her glass to his, the clear chime shattering the quiet of the night. “Cheers, Jack.”

    She drank deeply from her own glass, but he let his remain in his hand. The Kingfisher eyed him. “Don’t be silly, it isn’t poisoned.” Jack didn’t move. She reached for his glass and took one long sip, leaving about half. “Fair?”

    It was. Jack took it back and downed the rest, tasting a slick of strawberry behind the red wine. Her lipstick, presumably. He tried not to memorize the taste.

    When the glass was empty she took it and placed both behind her. Then, in a move so smooth it left him breathless, she slithered into his lap, grasping his tie in one hand to yank him forward and shoving the other inside his suit jacket. She withdrew a card, one of the few he kept on him when he had to pretend the bar was legit for a police raid.

    “Best shore up your defenses, Jack. After all, I’m a dangerous woman, alone, newly arrived in a town _so_ ready for the taking.”

    She released him. Jack stumbled backward, the window ledge catching his knees. He swung out of it, grasping the piping before he fell. It creaked as he rushed to the ground.

    He ran, sprinted really, away from the house. When he was almost out of sight, he glanced back and saw a pale arm waving at him, red nails glinting like blood drops on the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been ages since I have updated this but finally, I am on winter break and able to write again. 
> 
> I owe this chapter fully to the wonderful MFMM community on slack and especially to @quiltingmom, who has supported me through this whole process. This chapter is for you. 
> 
> Enjoy!


	8. Lord, what fools these mortals be!

    Jack had to give Miss Fisher some credit; she moved fast. Some of his braver runners had come back with talk of every painted kingfisher in the forbidden zone being redone and several in Jack’s own territory partially refreshed. It was a taunt. Miss Fisher dipping her blood red toes into his pool, waiting to see if he’d bite.

    Jack grappled with his response. Immediate action would ramp up tensions but if he let everything be as it was, Miss Fisher might think he was weak. And she’d swan dive in.

    Jack’s pen paused. This metaphor was getting away from him.

    Miss Fisher’s eyes still danced behind Jack’s surface thoughts. Jack grumbled under his breath. Ever since the crazy night he’d tumbled into her bedroom and found himself pinned to her bed, she hadn’t been far from his mind. And not just because she terrified him.

    Jack’s image of the Kingfisher had always been more, well, dangerous. Miss Fisher didn’t look dangerous, she looked sweet and adventurous. If he’d met her on the street, he’d imagine the extent of her daring went to occasionally gambling with her female friends and wearing stylish outfits.

    Her mask was perfect, but she’d had no reason to hold it up in front of him. And he’d seen that her veneer hid a mind more dangerous than any obvious threat would have been. Ruthlessness, perfectionism, and confidence all sparked out of her gaze, pinning him as much as her thighs had. Good lord why couldn’t he get away from thinking of the terrifying business challenge like a date that’d ended particularly well?

    Her attractiveness was just as scary as her mind as it provided distraction and innocence. A weaker man would have wasted just enough time focusing on it that it would leave him vulnerable. As it was, Jack was not a weaker man, but he was a man, and one who appreciated danger a bit more than was purely healthy.

    Jack glanced up at the wall clock. Half past twelve. Miss Fisher would have to wait. Time to get to work.

 

* * *

 

    Jack strolled through one of Melbourne’s richer neighborhoods, passing mansion after mansion, and plenty of fancily dressed people who gave his simple three piece suit a dour glance. He ignored them. He was on his way to a meeting of local leaders, to inform them of the Kingfisher’s challenge and hopefully persuade them not to fold, when, well, speak of the devil.

    The shoes caught his attention first. A familiar pair of brown loafers peeked out from under pressed trousers as the owner loped down the sidewalk. They were topped by a pressed brown vest, white undershirt, and a bowler hat, situated on the reddest hair Jack had ever seen. Jack gave the face beneath the hat a tip of his and a smirk, which she returned.

    The Scalpel was the nickname Jack’s men had granted Doctor Elizabeth MacMillan, for her sharp wit and equally deft medical skills. She’d been, not a friend, but a known acquaintance of Jack’s since he’d turned eighteen.

    Doctor MacMillan, who went by Mac, offered her services to the underworld of Melbourne for the simple price of protection. They didn’t attack her, and she’d treat any gang member, even take in members of rival gangs and treat them from a fight they’d just had with each other, tugging harder on stitches to silence their complaining. She was also, as pain loosened tongues, well informed and drew the line at healing anyone guilty of certain crimes.

    Her honor code lined up neatly with Jack’s, but their history went all the way back to that night of jackboots and blood when a sobbing mess of a twenty-two-year-old Jack had stumbled into Mac’s house, half dead.

    Jack’s acute distress that night had prompted Mac to draw him into her confidence. Jack walked away with his life, his sanity, and Mac’s darkest secret. He had never told a soul.

    Jack did all he could to prevent his men from showing up at Mac’s door, yet despite his best efforts they remained in contact.

    The smirk Mac had returned to him quickly turned into an exasperated grimace shot at the woman next to her. Jack’s gaze moved over, and like that he was staring into the startling eyes that had haunted his thoughts.

    Mac misinterpreted his shock and nudged Miss Fisher forward. “Peter Quince, meet The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, one of my oldest friends and biggest headaches.”

    Miss Fisher held out her hand, as a lady of her apparent status was wont to do. Jack bent over it for a quick kiss, then a short nip that gifted him with a blink of surprise. It was more than sufficient revenge for the bruised ribs she’d caused.

    Miss Fisher’s composure came back easily. “We’ve met,” she offered Mac.

    “Have you?” Mac raised an eyebrow.

    “Yes,” Jack confirmed. “I found myself visiting Miss Fisher recently.”

    Mac’s eyebrow reached for the waves of her hairline. “Hmm. How is the wife, Peter?”

    Jack started. “She’s fine.”

    He left it at that and Mac drew her own conclusions as to the state of the Brown Rose. But then she shot a look through Miss Fisher with a quick head roll towards Jack. Phryne shook her head, almost imperceptibly. But Jack had sharp eyes and hadn’t missed it. He said nothing, and conversation petered away, leaving Mac looking even more confused and Miss Fisher seriously amused.

    The friendship Mac had referenced was obvious. The two women looked perfectly in step and were subtly turned towards each other, like they were having a quiet conversation just between the two of them. It was a little surprising for Jack to see both so comfortable and to realize Mac was intimately close to a syndicate leader. It seemed they all were powerful people with secrets; Jack wouldn’t pry.

    The silence stretched out. Jack groaned internally. _Damn_ , if Miss Fisher’s professional façade wasn’t just as attractive as her real face. Jack’s fears about her lips had been realized and yet he had never been more grateful to be afraid. She had adorned them today with a bright blood red that shimmered in the late afternoon sunshine. More importantly, the lines of the paint were perfectly straight and perfectly arranged, ensuring that no matter what beautiful shape those dastardly lips curved into, the appearance was retained.

    Miss Fisher’s outfit did nothing to help Jack’s arousal to wane. It was a shiny, embroidered, deep purple dress that cut diagonally across her chest but still had straps that covered her shoulders and clipped with a large silver clasp at her hip. The dress was paired with a casual purple sunhat with a feather in it. Deference was given to the outdoors with a thin, white, ostrich feather stole draped over her soft forearms.

    Jack did everything possible to prevent his eyes from wandering up and down her body, but he was helpless to the devious lines of the dress. It was just body conscious enough to be attractive, and loose enough to permit the Kingfisher to be carrying multiple weapons. Jack had always appreciated a good display of hidden power, and Miss Fisher was one of the best he’d seen.

    Mac’s sharp eyes didn’t miss anything, and she quirked another of her expressive eyebrows at Jack. Jack was confused for a moment, then Mac’s eyes slid from him to Miss Fisher and back again. Blood rushed to Jack’s head as he realized what Mac was implying.

    Mac’s assumption about the nature of Jack’s relationship with Miss Fisher hit him hard, and thankfully the calculating part of Jack’s mind was in the driver’s seat rather than the fanciful part or he’d have blurted out some incoherent denial. He made a split-second choice.

    Leaning back slightly and shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack treated Miss Fisher to a knowing smile. “I didn’t appreciate what you stole from me.”

    “But Jack, how could I resist? You left it right next to my things. I just swept it up as I cleaned the room.”

    So that was how it was. He’d known she was brazen, but saying she seized part of his Melbourne on accident? It was an odd mix of infuriating and enchanting. Jack tipped his hat to her.

    “I won’t ask for it back, but I’ll ask you not to take anything else.” The _Or Else_ was clear in his eyes. Miss Fisher affected a girlish giggle that had Mac looking almost comically disgusted.

    “No promises. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an urgent meeting with my aunt. I’m afraid she may tan my hide if I’m late.”

    With that she farewelled both Mac and Jack, who fell into step after the scintillating presence of Miss Fisher abandoned them.

    “Fess up, Robinson. How could you two be acquainted? The subtext is making my head spin.”

    Jack laughed. “You found us out?”

    “A focused Phryne is not nearly as attentive to detail as she’d like to think she is.” Noted. “I introduced you as Peter, yet she addressed you as Jack.”

    He hadn’t even noticed. “It would appear I’m not as attentive as I’d like to be either.”

    “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. Jack Robinson is the most thorough man this side of Melbourne.”

    “Yes, _this_ side.”

    Mac stopped short. “Oh god, are you two in competition?”

    Jack readjusted his hat again. “With Melbourne as the prize.”

    “Are you insane?” Mac’s voice rose. “Robinson, I respect you, and that’s not something I tell just anyone, but you can’t take on the Kingfishers. Especially with Phryne at the reins.”

    Mac respected him? Jack was still a little dazed from the doctor’s first remark and it was difficult to process the next.

    “Why not?”

    “I won’t say you have no idea what the Kingfishers are capable of, I have more faith in your common sense than that, but Phryne isn’t just any Kingfisher.” She abruptly switched tacks. “How long has it been since a Kingfisher was in Melbourne?”

    “Almost half a century,” Jack promptly supplied.

    “How long do you think that former Kingfisher was still in power?”

    “Right up until now. That’s when the code went out.”

    “When the code went to Melbourne at least.” Jack raised an eyebrow. Mac continued. “There’s been…a silencer, on the code’s release outside of Europe for a while now. A collective decision was made by the Kingfisher commanders, following a certain incident in Paris, to keep the information about a new Kingfisher confined to the Continent. So, Robinson, how long would you like to guess Phryne has been Kingfisher?”

    The twinkle in Mac’s eye dropped a brick of horror into Jack’s stomach. He almost didn’t want to guess.

    “Five years?”

    “Longer.” _Good lord_.

    “Seven?”

    Mac shook her head. “Phryne Fisher has been the Kingfisher for a full decade.”

    Jack’s head snapped back down the path, trying to catch a glance of Miss Fisher but she’d disappeared. Somehow that disturbed him more than if she had been there. If he had her in his sights, he could keep track of her.

    Mac chuckled, low and amused. “I see you understand the situation now.”

    Jack took a deep breath. “I do.” He snapped the lapels of his overcoat. “The competition is finally equal.”

    Mac looked up at him, concerned. “Have you hit your head Robinson? You’re facing a seasoned Kingfisher. Do you know what a whole decade of being a syndicate leader does to a person?”

    “Of course. And Mac, how old was I when I took over the Mechanicals?”

    “Don’t patronize me, Robinson. You were twenty-five. Do you really think seventeen years of leading the Mechanicals matches up with a decade of the Kingfishers?”

    “No. But seventeen years _in Melbourne_ might. It’s been ages since the Kingfisher was here. This isn’t the city Phryne Fisher grew up with.” He spotted his turn off up ahead. “It was enlightening to speak with you Mac.”

    Mac laughed and shook his hand. “As always, Robinson. You know, you might end up a match for Phryne Fisher after all.”

    “Oh?”

    “Well clearly you’re both crazy.” She wasn’t wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: 
> 
> Hellllllooooo everyone! I liiiiivveee! I would apologize for how late this chapter is, but honestly it’s going to happen again. That’s what real life is. Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this one and are willing to keep reading. My thanks and love as always, Ragingstillness. 
> 
> I also hope you enjoyed Mac's introduction and backstory.

**Author's Note:**

> I was dragged kicking and screaming into writing fic for this entrancing fandom by my own mind. I just couldn’t stop coming up with new ideas for this couple. The chapters are going to be all out of sorts in terms of length, I’m experimenting with a new style. As this is my first foray into this fandom and especially with the gargantuan task of taking on not only a new dynamic but also an AU, I’d love feedback. Thank you for reading! 
> 
> For anyone interested: The chapter title is from a Midsummer Night’s Dream because you better believe I’m a Shakespeare nerd if Jack’s gang name and his alias weren’t enough of a giveaway.


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